


Star Wars: A New Path

by scarletjedi



Series: Sj Rewrites the Star Wars Sequels [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: But here's what really happened.
Relationships: Leia Organa/Han Solo
Series: Sj Rewrites the Star Wars Sequels [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698727
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	Star Wars: A New Path

**Author's Note:**

> So, brydylcai and I saw the sequels as they came out, (and she lovingly held my hand through the end of The Force Awakens because she knows me), and after each, decided that... there was a better way to do that. 
> 
> So, now that the sequels are well and truly over, I, with brydylcai, have decided that I've heard Disney's version, but since it's a stupid-ass version, I'm going to fix it and present to you, well -- what my version of these stories would have been, had I been tapped me to write them without consideration of profit margin or toy tie-in.
> 
> Many thanks to punsbulletsandpointythings for being an amazing beta!

  


* * *

  
Finn had been trained for this.

He hadn’t known it at the time, hadn’t expected his moment to look like this – face exposed, wearing the jacked of a dead man come back to life – but he had been command track, before. He had been _trained_ for this, and that feeling – that same feeling that stayed his hand back on Jakku, that had started the very journey that landed him _here_ – was whispering _now, now, now._

“General,” he said, and the room fell silent. He had her attention. “I know how we can take down Starkiller Base.”

He hadn’t been trained for how it could all go so very wrong.  


* * *

  
“Freeze!”

Han sighed, raising his hands and linking his fingers behind his head in a habit that was almost as old as he was. On the pillar in front of him, the charge blinked, armed and ready. Several more blinked merrily in the bag at his feet.

Big Deal Finn had gone off to get the girl. He’d probably succeed too – Han had seen that sort of luck before, when Luke…when _they_ were young. Chewie was further on, setting his own charges. Han was alone, surrounded, and – as the closest trooper took his blaster – weaponless. Which, of course, left Han with his best defense.

“Hey, fellas,” Han said, stumbling slightly as he was jerked around. “Cold today, isn’t it?”

“Silence, Resistance scum!” The trooper with the orange shoulder patch ordered, and really, was there some sort of script? Han could have sworn he’d had this exchange before.

Still, it didn’t stop his mouth from dropping open as he scoffed. “Scum!” he exclaimed. “That’s rich. Do you know who I am?”

Han only became aware of the heavy footsteps when they stopped, and when he turned to look, his stomach dropped. “Oh,” he said, his voice flat. “You.”

“Oh,” Phasma said in her tinny, mechanical voice. “Me.” Her normally shining armor was dull, covered as it was in garbage juice. The plates over her left leg were dented – Han wondered if this base used a dianoga, too, or if she had dealt with some other dreadful creature.

“Listen,” he began, shifting his feet. “About before—”

“Silence!” Phasma snapped, and Han sighed again, rolling his eyes. He closed his mouth, anyway, affecting an air of innocence that Leia always said managed to make him look more suspicious, but it was the only look he had, at the moment.

Phasma stepped forward, getting into Han’s personal space. The smell of her was…indescribable, and Han had swum in his own fair share of garbage juice in his youth.

She tilted her helmet, looking past Han and down, where she used the tip of her blaster to nudge open the bag, revealing the small pile of as-of-yet unplaced charges. Han looked down as well, before meeting Phasma where her eyes should be.

“I have never seen those before in my life,” Han said, quickly and with feeling, but Phasma simply turned to the trooper with the orange pauldron.

“Take him to General Hux,” she ordered. “He’ll want to deal with this one...” she paused, and Han grit his teeth. “Personally.”

“Told you I was a big deal,” Han said sickly, smiling through his teeth even as his arms were forced down into cuffs, even as he was marched along at blaster point, even as he was trapped in a small lift with too much armor and the smell of Phasma.

Hells, he hoped Chewie’s charges were enough.

The lift let out into yet another maze of corridors, and Han realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was completely lost. He had grown up around and on starships, had served — however briefly – on a star destroyer, had run around pell mell on the first Death Star, and hadn’t gotten lost. 

He really had a bad feeling about this.

After far too many turns, Phasma frog marched him into what appeared to be a command center. It was designed like an Imperial ship’s bridge, proving that the First Order, like all other orders, had no imagination or sense of style beyond squares. 

Han was pretty sure it was both. 

The minions on either side of the shining black catwalk continued about their business, being more than a little occupied by the current offensive trying to blow up their main oscillator, but Han knew people, and could feel the eyes on him. Who was this old fool, and why was he here.

Though, Han would bet all of his winnings from the Stassia classic that more of them were staring at Phasma, wondering why she was covered in garbage. It was a warm enough thought that Han was able to muster a smirk, even as he was all but dragged down the catwalk to the officers at the other end.

They were all of them _children_ ; baby-faced authoritarians having a Force-damned tantrum because the Galaxy didn’t want to give them everything they wanted on a silver platter.

The head infant, Han recognized from the files Leia had left out – for him to find, or for her to scrutinize to death, it often amounted to the same thing. General Hux, the mastermind behind this very station, and the criminal who ordered the destruction of the Hosnian System, turned to face them as Han was dragged down the catwalk.

He looked like he had a stick up his ass twice as wide as that big head of his.

Han let his smirk grow – there was nothing that infuriated little-minded men like him than people whom he believed to be “lesser” not giving him the respect he only thinks he deserves. And Han? Han talked back to Jabba the Hutt. He shot at Darth Vader without so much as a by-your-leave. He went up against not one but _two_ Death Stars with nothing more than luck, a blaster, and an army of Ewoks. This little pissant was nothing compared to some of the powerful criminals Han had pissed off and walked away from.

“Captain Phasma,” Hux snapped, “What is the meaning of…” he paused to run his eyes over the pair of them, taking in the whole package. “This.” Han rolled his eyes. Pompous little jackass.

“A saboteur found placing detonation charges in the lower levels,” Phasma answered. “Han Solo. Husband of General Leia, of the Resistance.” Hux froze, his little lizard eyes looking at Han even more closely. Han raised his chin. _Bring it on. I was tortured by Vader himself. There’s nothing you can do to me._

Phasma paused. “He is here with FN-2187. My men are searching the base for him as we speak. It will only be a matter of time.”

“What do I care about FN-2187 now?” Hux snapped, and Han realized with a start that they meant Finn, and he ground his teeth. Something about being known only by a _designation_ didn’t sit right with him. Then again, he never could abide slavery. “Do you understand the sort of leverage this gives us?”

“The New Republic is crumbling,” Phasma said. “The Resistance failed – what leverage could he possibly give?”

Hux bared his teeth. “I didn’t say anything about the New Republic, now did I?” He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back, and addressed Han directly. “Nothing to say, have you? Have I managed to silence that infamous Solo prattle?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Han drawled. “I have this thing with my ears, it happens when you get older; I can’t hear nerfshit.”

Hux’s face purpled, a truly ugly color for a man with hair that orange, and he moved faster than Han could see. A sudden ringing in his ear, his head snapped to one side and his jaw ached. He opened his mouth a few times, testing. “Did you just slap me?!”

“Sir.” One of the lower officers – communications, if Han was reading that insignia right – stepped forward. “It’s the Supreme Leader, sir.”

Hux stared at the officer for a beat – clearly not ready to give up taunting his prisoner, yet, but unwilling not to leap when his Lord demanded. Han just wished they’d hurry up and try to put him in a cell. He could start his escape once he was en route to a cell, and he only had so long before someone on the offensive got off their lucky shot.

“Very well,” Hux said, with a grudging snap to his voice. “Inform the Supreme Leader that I will be there shortly.” He turned to Phasma. “Take the prisoner down to the detention level—”

“Sir,” the officer interrupted, again, and Han could feel the tension in the room rise by three clicks. “It’s the prisoner that he wants.”

Hux frowned. “What could he possibly want with the prisoner?”

Han felt his heart settle somewhere around his boots. He had a pretty good idea what Snoke could want with the father of…

“I don’t know sir,” The officer said. “But he sent—”

The door to the bridge slid open, oddly peaceful when contrasted against the contained rage that swept into the room with Han’s only son.

“Ren,” the officer finished, unnecessarily. 

Ben – Ren, though he refused to call him by that ridiculous name that he had chosen – stomped down the runway. He was taller than Han now, and moved like a man rather than a boy, but Han had seen this walk before. Like the rest of them- he was verging on a tantrum.

He stopped, closer to Han than he had been since he had Fallen, but still not within arm’s reach.

“I’ve come to take the prisoner,” Ren-Ben said, his vocoder distorting his speech, but not by much. He still sounded like his son, only playing pretend. Han knew he was staring, but how could he stop? His son had grown up beyond his reach, in the clutches of that miserable Snoke.

His baby boy.

“Yes, well,” Hux began. “I’ll allow—”

“You misunderstand,” His son said. “I am not asking.”

He raised his hand, fingers curled almost delicately, and Han was caught up as if in an invisible fist, raised off the floor and dragged to his son’s side, his boots barely scraping the ground. The moment he was deemed close enough, his son turned, and strode from the office. 

“Now see here, he is _my_ prisoner!” Hux called after them.

His son didn’t break his stride. “Not anymore,” he said, and let the doors close behind them.

Han was still held aloft, held all over, in every direction, but the pressure on his throat was minimal – more like wearing his shirt buttoned up completely than from some sort of psychic attack.

This…this was ridiculous.

“I can walk you know,” Han said. “I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

His son didn’t seem to acknowledge that Han had spoken, just continued to drag him through the corridors.

Han sighed. “You know, Vader let me walk.”

_That_ got a reaction, because of course it did. His son stopped short, still a few steps ahead, and Han felt his throat close as the fist around him squeezed more tightly – but then it was over, and Han was on his feet, standing but still unable to move.

“You won’t run?” His son asked, not turning around. “You were always good at running away from your problems.”

“Ouch,” Han said, but he didn’t deny it. Why would he? His son was right – Han’s first instinct always was to run away, and when things started to fall apart, that’s exactly what he did. Leia seemed to forgive him, but then again, Leia always was more forgiving of parts of him than Han thought she had any right to be. Good luck convincing her of _that_.

“I’ve never run from _you,_ Ben,” Han said.

His son scoffed. “Ben is dead. I killed him.”

“No,” Han said, voice lowering with the force of it. “If you were more like your mother, maybe I’d believe that. But you’re too much like me, son. You can run all you want, but these things catch up to you. No one can run forever.”

His son stood there, breathing. It was nothing like Vader’s oppressive respirator, but Han could feel the Darkness there anyway. He was no Jedi, but some things you don’t need Jedi senses to know.

Being a father was enough.

“He wants me to kill you,” his son said, and Han closed his eyes.

“What do _you_ want?” Han asked.

His son was quiet for a moment. “Everything,” he said, and started forward again. This time, he pulled on Han, who had to stumble along after, on his own two feet.  


* * *

  
Finn had a bad feeling about this. Han should have been back by now.

Rey was a bright spot next to him, vibrating with light and life and Finn was _so very glad_ to have his friend back. Chewie was pacing, walking the ten steps in front of them before turning, growling to himself. Idly, Finn wished for his old bucket – he loved the fresh air on his face, but the translation matrix was kriffin’ useful. He looked at Rey.

“He’s worried,” she translated. “I am too.”

“So am I,” Finn said. “Something’s changed. Something’s gone wrong.”

Chewie howled, short and mournful.  


* * *

  
Han thought he was prepared for Snoke’s audience chamber, but he didn’t think anyone would be prepared for the utter lunacy that was that room. It was black, which wasn’t unusual considering the company kept, but the oversized throne was just compensating for something. He’d seen Hutts in his time more humble than this room.

Of course, the Hutts weren’t nearly the size of the creature sitting on the throne. Snoke, his hologram over ten meters tall and twice as ugly. “Hell,” Han muttered under his breath. This was more than some mystical Jedi Force nonsense – this was small men with big egos. “You owe me big time, kid.”

“Supreme Leader,” His son called out as they entered the room. “I have brought him.”

“Good.” Snoke spoke, and his voice rumbled through the room, through Han’s chest and echoed in his skull. It was a good effect. Affective, even. “At last. The infamous, Han Solo.”

Han craned his neck. “I prefer notorious, if we’re being honest. It adds a certain something, don’t you think?”

Snoke sneered. “I’m sure,” he said. “We have been looking for you for a while now, but you are a hard man to find.”

“Not if you’re Kanjiclub,” Han muttered, and then, more loudly, “Well. You have me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was talking to my son.”

Han turned to his son. “Come with me, Ben. I’ve got the Falcon parked nearby.” He grinned, lopsided and hopeful. “I’ll even let you drive.” 

His son chuckled, and Han knew that sound — it was that same self-conscious, half-stifled laugh that he had developed before he had fallen head first into puberty, when his Han’s wit had been his only defence against his son’s increasing sullenness. 

“Enough!” Snoke roared, and Han sighed, an overdramatic production, but he couldn’t let his son think that this sleemo was the only option. 

“Now what?” Han asked the universe. 

Snoke frowned, the expression exaggerated by the scar on his face. He wasn’t used to people talking back. Good to know.

“Now,” he hissed. “My Apprentice will take his final steps to the Dark Side.” He straightened on his throne. Han wondered just where this projection was coming from – he’d have thought the Supreme Leader would have been here in person to celebrate the victory of the base.

Looks like Snoke learned something from the Emperor’s death. Pity.

“Kylo Ren,” Snoke intoned. “You know the task set before you.”

His son stepped forward. “I know it.”

The weight of the cuffs fell from Han’s wrists, clattering loudly to the floor, and he brought his hands up instinctively, rubbing his wrists. There was little his hands could do against his son; if his son decided to truly kill him, he would. Han kept his hands raised, anyway.

“Ben,” Han said. “You don’t have to do this.”

His son didn’t answer. “What do you see, when you look at me?” he asked, his voice oddly distant. “A monster.”

“No,” Han insisted, stepping forward. “You’re my son. You always will be. No mask will ever change that.” He took another step forward. “Come with me, son. You don’t have to choose this.”

His son was so still. Han stepped forward again, coming within arm’s reach. _I’m trying, Leia._

“There is no choice,” His son said, his voice flat. “And you’re not as funny as you think. Or as charming.” There was a loud hum, the ignition of a lightsaber, and then pain so cold, it took Han’s breath away. He saw his own shock reflected in the chrome of Kylo Ren’s mask, and fell to his knees…  


* * *

  
Several levels away, Rey and Finn both stopped dead, Finn doubling over in pain as Rey cried out. Then, just as quickly, they took off running into the heart of Starkiller base, Chewie running after them.  


* * *

  
In Snoke’s throne room, Kylo Ren stared down at the body of the man who had once been his father, and felt…nothing. Sensed nothing. He could barely breathe―

Kylo ripped off his helmet, breathing in great gasps of air that smelled like ozone and copper, and he staggered back. He had done it. He had severed his last tie to the Light.

He had killed his father.

Han Solo was dead.

Dimly, he was aware that these words should fill him with a sense of victory, of pride – it was, after all, a defeat of his former self.

Instead the words barely made sense to him.

Han Solo was dead.

> His father was dead.

At his hand.

No matter how he tried he couldn’t make the words link up

Han Solo was dead

> His father was dead

He had killed―

His father was dead.

“Wonderful,” Snoke purred on his throne, drawing Kylo’s attention. “Well done, my boy. Now, come to me. It is time to finish your training.”

Kylo Ren looked down at the body of his father. “Yes, my Master.”

The hologram winked out. He had his instructions.

He put on his helmet, ignoring the...sweat he found on his face, and walked from the room.  


* * *

  
Left. Left. Right. Stop, wait as the troops marched by. Go, go, go!

Finn didn’t know how he knew where to go, but he knew, somehow, and Rey knew it too.

He hadn’t been kidding when he had told Han that he had been here on a sanitation rotation. It was a standard part of his training before he had been officially moved to command track. It hadn’t allowed him access to the technical readouts of the base, but it did allow him access to the base itself. No one bothered the troopers assigned to garbage duty; you were more invisible than the mouse droids when you were pushing the sanitation cart. Finn had seen the _entire_ base as he emptied garbage cans and mopped floors.

He did not know where they were going, but he knew when they got there. Snoke’s audience chamber. No trooper was allowed inside, save for Captain Phasma, and Finn was pretty sure she had only been inside a handful of times. Most of the orders for the troops came through General Hux, who had spent at least half of his time in here. At least as much as Kylo Ren.

Predictably, the door was shut, but they had to get inside. Rey was pressing buttons on the control panel, just as frantic, trying to slice her way inside, but it was nearly impossible without an astromech.

Chewie roared, and Rey threw herself just in time as he blasted the door controls. They exploded in a shower of sparks, but the door slid open to reveal the room beyond. Finn rushed inside, following that compulsion.

It was dark in the room, lit by only the red glow of the floor lighting, and while it made sense for a room whose main purpose was to display a hologram, it made for shit lighting now.

Of course, it was hard to miss the figure splayed in the middle of the floor.

Things, then, Finn would only remember in snippets. Rey screaming. Chewie howling with his grief, his bowcaster firing at everything. The voice in his head, the same wordless impulse that lead him here, still urging him on.

Finn fell to Han’s side, the mirror to Rey. He checked Han’s wound and Rey checked for vitals.

“I don’t have a pulse, I can’t find a pulse,” Rey whispered, hoarse and frantic. Finn peeled back Han’s jacket to reveal the lightsaber wound – a perfect circle, burned through his side. There was very little blood, and it was charred around the edges, and it was so bad, but it seemed so little. He placed his hand on Han’s side.

“He can’t be dead,” Finn whispered, and wished it so, with all of him. For Rey. For General Leia. For Chewie.

“Wait!” Rey’s voice was still a whisper, but it was sharp, cutting through the fog in Finn’s mind. “I found it. He’s alive. He’s still alive.”

“Still alive,” Finn repeated, and fumbled through the pockets of his jackets before pulling out a bacta patch that he had shoved inside when trying to fix up Chewie during their last crazy escape.

“Chewie! He’s still alive!” Rey called. “We have to get him back to the Falcon!”

“You hear that, Solo?” Finn asked, pressing the bacta patch in place. “You’re still alive.”

For once, the old pirate was silent.  


* * *

  
Of course, leaving wasn’t that easy. Chewie took Han, picking him up like he weighed nothing, and ran. Their explosive entrance into the room had gained them some unwanted attention, so Finn and Rey found themselves fighting their way back to the Falcon.

Finn remembered to blow the charges, and he prayed to whoever might listen to one coward of an ex-stormtrooper that it was enough.

When Kylo Ren found them, Chewie was far enough ahead that he didn’t see him. He got Han hooked up in the Falcon’s med-center even as Finn raised the Skywalker lightsaber against Ren’s Sith blade. He still went down with a slice up his back, but not before wounding Ren, giving him a hole in his side to match the one in Han’s.

Rey fought with a violent fury, driving Ren back. Rey knocked Ren down, and would have killed him, except that behind them, an explosion rocked the base and she faltered in her footing. Instead, she ran, leaving Ren in the snow to meet the Falcon just as her hatch was closing. She jumped inside, and they were gone.

Later, they would learn that not all of the charges had been placed. The shield had lowered, yes, but it was incomplete. Instead of a full destruction of the base, they had severely crippled the main weapon. They hadn’t won so much as they had not lost. 

But they had _time_.

Leia watched as the Millennium Falcon landed in the main hangar, the medical staff already rushing to meet them. Three had set out. Four had returned. Two still might not make it, but hell — they had pulled off miracles before.

She had hope.


End file.
